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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562371">Mending</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies'>FatalCookies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I went to write domesticity and it turned into h/c, It gets soft at the end I promise., M/M, anyway all of this is to say:</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:27:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Master sews a ripped seam.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Doctor calls ahead of time with a request that the Master, metaphorically speaking, keep the engines warm. He sounds tense on the line, but not yet frantic. Be that what it may, the Master still—rightfully—takes as a sign that things have gone quite pear-shaped while planetside.</p><p>He is expecting trouble. Potentially a daring escape the moment the Doctor and Alison come tumbling into the door, possibly even a brief stint of confrontation at the door.</p><p>He isn’t expecting the entirely unhurried demeanor that Alison and the Doctor both take, when entering back into the TARDIS. He isn’t expecting, either, the look on Alison’s face—nervous, unsure, skittish—or the look on the Doctor’s. </p><p>It… is a terrible look that he wears. </p><p>“What happened,” the Master deadpans.</p><p>He sees, in his peripheral vision, as Alison tries to shake her head at him—<em> no, don’t </em> <em>—</em>but he pays no heed. The Doctor doesn’t have eyes for the exchange. His gaze is locked on the console, expression dangerously blank, slack in a way that the Master knows spells trouble of an entirely different variety. </p><p>“Doctor,” he says. Asks. It is difficult to tell in moments like these.</p><p>“Nothing. It’s over,” the Doctor says.</p><p>A chill goes straight down the Master’s spine. “Doctor,” he says again—asking clarity, or begging gentleness. <em> Impossible </em>to tell in moments like these.</p><p>“It’s <em> over </em> ,” the Doctor repeats, voice louder, but not stronger. “I’ve already <em> had </em> this conversation—we <em> lost, </em> and it’s <em> over </em> <em>.</em> We couldn’t <em> do </em> anything and everyone’s— <em> damn it! ” </em></p><p>He clenches his hand into a fist and slams it down onto the console. Alison curses gently, and the Master, knowing how these things go, finally lifts his gaze to hers.</p><p>“Miss Cheney,” he says, “are you quite all right, or are there injuries I should be attending?”</p><p>“No,” she quickly says. Good girl, smart girl—she picks up on things ever so quickly. It is one of the things he admires about her. She sees what’s before her—an offer—and takes it with subtle, understanding ease. “No, thanks—but I think I need a cool-down. Be in the library if you need to talk to anyone, Doctor?”</p><p>A long silence goes by.</p><p>“Yes, Alison,” the Doctor says at last, distant and distracted, and terribly far away. The Master’s back goes rigid. “Yes, I—if I need you. If you need anything—?”</p><p>“Find one of you blokes, you do seem to get about. I’ll check in, yeah? If I don’t see you about. Doctor…”</p><p>“Alison,” he says. It’s subtle, the waver. The Master hears it. Given the company, he suspects the recipient of the address might hear it, too. “Not now.”</p><p>“Right,” she says.</p><p>She takes her leave and in her wake, leaves the hum of the console and two horrible, silent ghosts—one caught in a metal frame, the other, a wishful echo of a past self. Without a sound, the Master slides his hand across the console, towards the Doctor’s hand. The Doctor dodges away.</p><p>It hurts more than the Master would like to confess.</p><p>“You know this already,” the Master murmurs. “You can’t possibly help the entire—”</p><p>“Dashing of you to tell me what I can’t do,” the Doctor mumbles. “Kick me while I’m down, is it? Very sporting of you. Very traditional. I’ll have to take it into account the next time we pull out the chess set.”</p><p>It takes a moment for the Master to remind himself that this is not, in fact, about him. Sometimes one is merely aching, and lashing out at whatever is nearest. A fist to the console: a cutting word to the hearts. This isn’t actually about them, never mind how much the cut stings.</p><p>After that moment, he lets several more pass, just to make sure that his next words are calm.</p><p>“The TARDIS cannot give you any answers, you know,” he says, “but a bath might at least take off the edge. If you don’t mind my saying, of course.”</p><p>Another very, very long silence stretches between them.</p><p>“Damn you,” the Doctor mutters—presumably at the Master, though upon reflection, he does realize it could be aimed at anyone or anything at all, with a mood like this. The Doctor shrugs his shoulders and practically claws at his jacket to remove it, before he flings it in a half-fold over the console. “I’m going to work,” he declares, “on something. Don’t bloody ask me what, I haven’t the faintest yet. I’ll shower when I damn well like, too, so don’t bother butting in with your opinion, you understand? Good—now, do what you want, I don’t <em> care </em> <em>,</em> just so long as it doesn’t involve <em> me .” </em></p><p>He stalks away, leaving the smell of dust and the faintest taste of epinephrine in the air. The Master watches him go, and… endeavors, quite diligently, to <em> not </em>let the whole thing—the tirade, the snappish words, the Doctor’s back to him, fleeing—sting as much as it might. </p><p>It is not about him. Not about them. </p><p><em> It’s just </em> <em>,</em> he muses sourly, <em> that </em> we <em> always get caught in the middle .  </em></p><p>He lets out a slow, unnecessary breath, and plucks the Doctor’s coat from the console. It is only at that moment that he realizes it was torn at some point during his and Miss Cheney’s recent excursion. The seam at the shoulder is undone a good two inches, starting at the apex of the garment and trailing down towards the shoulder.</p><p>“The work is never done,” he murmurs, aloud. He is not expecting a reply, and yet it is sobering to hear none come out of the corners of this ancient, labyrinthine ship.</p><p>His fingers clench into the fabric. And then, he goes off in search of a needle.</p><p>—</p><p>Despite the Doctor’s wishes, the Master does—after many long spans—finally go looking for him. Miss Cheney has continued to make herself scarce, and the Doctor was not to be found in any of the scattered workshops strewn about this old vessel. At last, the Master tries for the bedroom they so often share—and there, indeed, he finds the man. He has washed his face, the Master can make out that much from the clean smell and the wetted tips at the front of his hairline. </p><p>Dust, the Master recalls. It has a tendency to cling, and to remind. It would stand to reason that the man would clean his hands and his lashes of it. Stave away, too, the smell of some poor, wretched planet, gone stale. </p><p>He was sitting, but stands when the Master enters. His throat bobs, but he says nothing. Anxiety is sitting in him, again, and guilt likely brooding alongside it. His beautiful, clean hands fidget, like piecing together apologies owed.</p><p>The Master supposes, there is an apology most likely owed to him, after that tiff in the console room.</p><p>Instead of demanding it, or even waiting for it, he lays the coat gently overtop of the made bed, and gives a nod to announce it. He lets his gaze meet the Doctor’s. </p><p>“I took the liberty of tending to your coat.”</p><p>“My—coat?”</p><p>It is so obvious the Doctor was not expecting this. It would have pleased the Master, in times long past. Surprising this old fool is no small task. He’d made entire schemes, plans, and machinations, once, all with the intention of catching him off-guard, and proving some prowess. How funny to be here now, with another layer of fabric across the bed, while he flounders.</p><p>“It was torn,” the Master explains. “I took the liberty of mending it.”</p><p>“You… oh. Right, I—well that makes…” The Doctor pauses. The Master watches his hands continue to fiddle, as the tendons jump in his wrist. How hard he works, when trying to put the pieces together. “Master—I—”</p><p>“Can explain?” the Master offers. It is emphatically not what the Doctor was going to say, but perhaps this will be a softer, kinder thing to have to confess to. Besides, he knows the response for this already. “You don’t have to.”</p><p>The Doctor looks at him with an expression that’s far closer to helplessness than the Master finds entirely comfortable. He steps forward, closing some of the distance, until they are at a comfortable proximity. Grudges are rarely held at a distance like this, he thinks. The Doctor must agree, for some of the tension—the kind held when one is biting their tongue, the Master suspects—leeches out of him.</p><p>“Got to thinking you might not pop by,” the Doctor explains.</p><p>“Follow your every word? And leave you to your own devices? Doctor, Doctor—I’d hope you know me better than that.”</p><p>“Hope I would, too,” the Doctor says. He tries for a smile, but it is a weak and unbeautiful thing, like animals when first born. Delicate, breakable bones, and shielded, swollen eyes. The Doctor swallows; the Master knows truth when it comes knocking. He makes a point to listen as the Doctor opens his mouth, tries—fails—and tries again to speak.</p><p>At long last, the phrase comes out battered and broken:</p><p>“How many more times do I have to <em> fail ?” </em></p><p>The Master lets that question sit in the air. He knows the answer, but he wants to put space in between. He wants the Doctor to know, and to feel, how careful the consideration is when he speaks. It is, he thinks, the gentlest thing he probably has to offer.</p><p>“Many more,” the Master murmurs at last, “I suspect.”</p><p>The worst possible scenario follows: his meaning is lost, and the ensuing look on the Doctor’s face is not only weak and pitiful—it is <em> devastating </em>. “Master—” he starts.</p><p>“Doctor,” he interrupts. Softly, mind, but he does not know if he can bear to hear the man’s voice break, again. “Doctor,” he murmurs, “you’re not understanding me.”</p><p>“Ha—aren’t I? Lots more times to fail, is it—?” </p><p>“I am not criticising you, nor am I being cruel, nor blatantly practical. Listen to me, please.” He pauses for effect, and the Doctor, encouragingly, makes no interrupting sound. “You will fail again,” the Master murmurs. “And goodness me, what a <em> boon </em> that will be to you. Look around yourself, my dear—look at where failure has <em> brought </em> you.” He pauses in speech, and hesitates in hearts. He says it anyway: “Brought <em> us.” </em></p><p>“Master…” </p><p>“How many schemes have you thwarted, of mine?” he demands, in the same way a penitent demands pity. “How many pas-de-deuxs, how many rugs ripped from beneath our feet? <em> Doctor—” </em></p><p>He slips another step closer.</p><p>“How many failures have I endured, to find myself here? How many more I would gladly suffer to wind up <em> here </em> ...<em>” </em></p><p>The Master reaches for his elbow, presses his fingers against the thick weave of the fabric. </p><p>“with you…” </p><p>A spot of incredulous adoration takes him by surprise, forces a breathless-sounding chuckle from his sculpted lips. </p><p>“...doing your mending?”</p><p>He doesn’t mean for it to sound helpless, much less helplessly fond. But then, he doesn’t always get a say in how these things go. One of the greatest boons of traveling with the Doctor: one comes to expect some delightful inconvenience. So, he sounds the way he does: the Doctor, in reply, buckles. </p><p>It is somehow, after all the time apart and all this shorter time together, so <em> easy </em>to slide his hands up the Doctor’s wrists, his elbows, his shoulders, and wrap him up. There is nothing stilted, either, in the way the Doctor curls, and presses forward. In the end, they embrace, and it is all easy. </p><p>The Master revels for an incredulous, happy moment in that fact.</p><p>“You can’t fix me, you know,” the Doctor whispers thickly into the Master’s neck. “Frankly, think I’m a bit too broken-up for that.”</p><p>The Master lifts a hand and curls it up in the Doctor’s hair.</p><p>“Who said a thing about fixing?” It is not a small effort to drawl in a murmur, but the Master credits himself with a decent enough attempt. “Mending, I said. Seams and patches, that’s all. The make isn’t bad,” he says, running his thumb over the Doctor’s greying temple, “I just want to make sure it stays together. So to speak.”</p><p>The Doctor, hands restless, paws at the Master’s back, then his sides, creeping forward out of the embrace. It would surprise the Master if it lasted more than a moment, but then the Doctor is taking the Master’s head between his hands, fingers dipping back into his hair, forehead coming to rest upon his. He can feel the first tentative nudges at the front of his thoughts, begging entrance. Begging company.</p><p>With a sigh, he lets down the barriers around his mind.</p><p>He is expecting, somehow, a share of the tragedy—a burden equally shouldered, and more tolerable for it. He isn’t expecting the wash of gratitude, of desperate, choking wishfulness, the anxiety of itching, running feet made to stand still and the gravitational devotion at its center. He isn’t expecting the <em> love </em> that comes through, in the touch of their minds, as it wraps around a mantra of <em> thank you, thank you, thank you . </em></p><p>With agonizing weight, the Master lifts his chin, and presses his lips to the Doctor’s forehead.</p><p>“It’s all right,” the Master murmurs—or at least, he thinks that he does. The brushing of minds leaves ambiguity in between them, and even the movement of his lips guarantees nothing of the sound made. He trusts he is heard regardless: “It’s all right. Nothing a little thread and needle can’t fix, Doctor. It’s all right. You’re all right.”</p><p>His spine, slowly, sets to rights. The Master sways as the Doctor lifts his head, properly now, and loses all the proximity necessary to keep his lips on the Doctor’s skin. He watches the Doctor open his eyes and blink away the shine to them, whisking the crystalline flickers of watery light onto his cheeks. </p><p>The Master nearly says something, about tears and foolishness.</p><p>Then, the Doctor throws himself forward into a kiss, and the Master finds his lips and mind, both, a little too preoccupied to form the response.</p><p>(The Doctor thought he was being facetious, when he mentioned once, offhandedly, that the Doctor tastes <em> clean </em>this time around. Scoff though he may, the point stands: water, and ice, and atmosphere after a lightning storm has passed through. All are reminiscent. Despite all that, the Doctor’s lips are soft, and his hearts, more giving than the pain would make him. For all the Master worries, sometimes, about him being washed-out and a dimmer version of himself, the Doctor is so fresh. The Master wonders if the Doctor knows the power of a thing like that. The hope that comes with these things could bring new light to a world.</p><p>The Doctor whimpers against his lips, and the next wash of softer gratitude across the Master’s mind informs him that he need not worry: tangled as their minds are, it would be impossible for him not to know, now.)</p><p>When the kiss breaks, they both shudder. The disentangling comes naturally, peacefully, though not without some regret. The Master rolls onto his toes and steals a brief, chaste, and final kiss for himself, before they are each their own again, and contained entirely within their own metal-or-flesh frames.</p><p>“If it is not,” the Master whispers, “untoward of me, Doctor—”</p><p>“—yes?”</p><p>“—that bath,” he breathes, “that I recommended earlier. ...shall I draw it for you?”</p><p>The Doctor closes his eyes, and presses their foreheads tight together again. This time, he keeps his mind to himself. The Master, horrible, longing fool that he is, sways after when the Doctor parts.</p><p>“Please,” the Doctor whispers, followed promptly by, “I love you.”</p><p>Clean, hopeful things, indeed. The Master retracts his hands, letting them both settle upon the Doctor’s chest. His hearts are still beating, after all. No irreparable damage. Nothing a needle and thread—and a spot of careful attention—can’t fix.</p><p>“Bath,” he repeats, “Doctor.”</p><p>And for all his itching, running feet, for all his hard edges and sharp retorts, for all his pale and tired airs, the Doctor lets the best and softest parts of himself show. He acquiesces, and the Master leads him by the hand into the next mending moment.</p>
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